


A Nice Place to Visit

by orphan_account



Category: Adventure Time
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Space, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 22:37:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finn and Jake have spent their whole lives on this ship. And they're finally busting out. Nothing is the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Nice Place to Visit

It's not real anymore.

It once was, all of it, but not anymore. I can tell.

The day I realized it was the day they were serving split pea soup for the 658th day in a row in the cafeteria. Yeah, I was counting.

I was too young to remember life before. Life before what? Life before the endless bolted down tables, the mindless tasks princess sends me on the keep me busy, the artificial gravity. Before split pea soup, six hundred and fifty-eight days in a row. Before the ship.

I've never actually seen the entire ship. I've seen pictures from the outside, though. It was exactly what I was expecting – round, gray, ordinary. Like us.

I can see the earth when I squint out the hub - a minuscule green marble in a pool of split pea soup. Yes, the color of our split pea soup is the same color as the voids of space. Someone should really check on that.

I sat down at the titanium table, across from a tall boy around my age, playing with the soupy junk before inhaling it.

The hall was unusually bright today – I could make out the bags under the boys eyes, and could see the high walls and ceilings. Unadorned, of course.

"Jake?" I asked. The boy looked up at me, then back down. He was dabbing at his t-shirt, the color of mustard, with a disposable napkin.

"Yeah, Finn?" he asked.

"How old am I?"

"Well, that's easy. You're as old as I am," he laughed, breaking out his well-worn grin. "You're…." he blinked, then started counting on his fingers. "Thirteen?"

"But how many years ago was that?" I scowled, letting out a hot breath of air.

There was no one left to care enough to keep track. Only the little kids got some special recognition for their birthday – a card, an extra helping of banana cream pudding, a playing card – but I had long since graduated from that stage. I was the only person left keeping track.

Sometimes, between my lessons and games of basketball, I put tally marks on the wall in my dorm. Jake abhorred it – he said the small black lines adulterated the creamy grayness. I said that nothing could ruin the room any more than it already was.

At first, I didn't know why I did it. I just took out the thick, smelly marker whenever bored struck.

Eventually, the pattern became known. I grabbed the marker every time I was angry at a teacher from calling me back from the window, where I gazed at my home. I drew the stark lines every time one of my friends ditched me for someone else. The only friend I had left who never did that was Jake – he'd had a girlfriend for the past three years. I've only met her a few times. Though she's pretty enough, she doesn't speak any English. She speaks a harsher tongue that I've never heard before, but Jake seems to understand.

I drew a tally mark every time I yearned for answers. Answers to why my parents left me in a patch of cabbage, or if they knew that an altruistic woman would find pick me up and raise me alongside her own son. Answers to why the only woman I knew to ever show any concern for my happiness had died when I was so young, before I had any sense of gratitude shipping me and Jake off to this stupid school. Answers to why /they'd never talk about when we'd return, or what we'd return to.

Weeks went by, and the wall filled. Like ants crawling over a blank page.

This was the day the very last tally mark had slipped into place.

"Twelve million, nine-hundred seventy-three thousand, two hundred and seventy-five," I muttered. It had taken me four hours and a killer migraine to count each one.

"Hmm?" murmured Jake. The dining hall din quieted, the students trickling out to their dorms.

"I need to get out of here," I declared.

"Why?" asked Jake, "class doesn't start for another two hours." I eyed him.

"No. I meant _here_." The spoon clanged against the tabletop as it slipped through Jake's fingertips.

"That's banaynay, man!" he barked. The look I gave him could have melted glaciers.

"Jake, I know, I just _know_. I've thought it through, and I'm leaving tonight." He picked up his napkin and shredded it into smaller pieces.

"Come on, is it really that bad here?" he pleaded. "They have ice cream!" In spite of myself, I smirked.

"Dude, that is what I dream about. It's what causes me to sleep, night after night. It's like a lullaby – the call of home. And it had been, for as long as I can remember." The words spilled out all in one breath, and I found myself smiling. "You're my bro. I'd like you to come with me." Jake lit up. If he'd had a tail, it'd be wagging.

"Of course, homie," he exclaimed. Relief swept over me like a crashing wave.

"But what about the princess?" he asked without missing a beat. My smile dropped.

"There'll be other princesses," I said. I couldn't explain it; I just knew – back on earth, there was someone waiting for me. A sweet girl, with rosy cheeks and a room filled with beakers, a girl who didn't need a hero but a loyal friend.

And I knew just the person.

o.O.o

We left after all the lights had flickered out. Dressed in dark sweatshirts, we both tiptoed down the hall. Neither of us carried anything – everything in our room, our lives, was designed to be disposable.

We knew the route by heart – even in total darkness. We'd been navigating these halls, long after we were supposedly tucked in bed, since we were both seven. Sometimes we went out for a midnight snack. Sometimes it was to wrap plastic wrap over the toilet seat. And sometimes, when there was only one pair of footsteps instead of two, it was to find the beacon shining through my window that popped up all too often in my dreams.

Three left turns, two right, down a flight of stairs, one right turn. It led us straight to a dead-end. Nothing but a drab wall, with barely a vent and pure white trimmings in a sour attempt to spruce things up.

Perfect.

"You wait here," I breathed. Jake nodded. I crouched down, unscrewing the vent with my fingernails. It came off easily. Once I crawled through the walls, I'd signal Jake with four taps on the wall. He'd follow through after me, and we'd end up in the control room. From there, we'd rewire the door, punch in a code we stole off a desk earlier that day, and head into the escape pod. I really didn't want to think about what'd happen after that. At this point, I could not care any less. As long as we weren't blown to bits, I'd kiss the soil the moment I set foot on it. I may get sick, but I was expecting that. Adjusting to natural gravity, as opposed to the artificial junk, would do that to you. But I knew that with Jake by my side and dirt beneath my feet, I could start to live.

o.O.o

The tunnel was tighter than I'd imagined it'd be, but it hadn't been there since my feet were seven sizes smaller and I still had a snack time built into my classes. I wriggled my way down and pushed out the other vent having loosened the screws earlier that day. I quickly wrapped on the wall, four quick pips, and was greeted a few minutes later by a tomato-faced Jake.

The room we entered was small – it had beige walls, fluorescent lighting overhead, and two little marks on the wall where a calendar must have been hung. I rushed to the door in front of me and punched in the six-digit code; I'd practically memorized it by then. The square buttons were stiff with disuse, and I dug my nails into them as I held my breath.

The light turned as red as Jake's face.

"Damn," I breathed. I heard Jake groan.

"No, today's _Tuesday_ ," he grieved. They changed the codes on Wednesdays – it must have been past midnight.

My stomach dropped, a similar feeling to the time I'd actually finished a bowl of the cafeteria's split pea soup.

I took another look at the crumpled piece of paper in my hand. My sweaty palms had smudged the ink, and there was a spot of something dark - coffee, most likely – soaked into the edge. On the paper, there were two other numbers listed. I assumed they were from the weeks before. Only having spared them a cursory glance previously, they now held my full attention.

I recognized the,.

Okay, I'm not a very good student. Mediocre, at absolute best. But that day, Fiamma had helped me study. She had worn a sultry smile, and touched my hand when I got a question right. I could still remember the electric sparks that danced over my skin wherever we touched. So, instead of focusing on the way her fiery red hair cascaded and the warm aura that surrounded her, I focused on memorizing the long list of numbers before me. They were a special type of prime that I wouldn't be able to name a use for in a million years. But memorizing them was easier than I thought,. It was simple – each number got a litter, then I'd make up sentences using the words beginning with the letter.

The first one, what was the first one?

_An adventure._

"Finn, what – "

"Shhh." Harshness was not my intention, but concentration was vital. And it was not my strong suit.

_And adventure validates turbulent undertaking._

113167.

Great. I got the first one, which had absolutely zero relevance. What was the next one.

_Dodge the opinionated, vociferous, rowdy onlookers_. Real words of wisdom. 269389. Now, yesterday's code. I skipped that one, already knowing it. It ended in 509, _never falls off._

It was the next sentence that made all the difference, the one that would have the working code.

It was time. Something about time.

"How do we open the door?" Jake whispered. I smacked the wall. _Time never opens._ I punched in 659.

My concentration fell to the way I was feeling that day – aside from the warmth and fuzzies, I was melancholy, and thinking of what it'd be like to spend life on a spacecraft, eternally confined to small metal rooms and cafeteria food that was an abomination. I didn't want to fly, I wanted to land. I wanted to escape. I wanted out.

A bomb exploded inside my mind.

_Rarely venturing out._ 839.

I steadily pressed the last digits with the pads of my fingertips. I could hear my heart, jackhammering to the beat of the nauseating techno song that played earlier in the dining hall.

The light switched to green. Green like real peas, like the chloroform that filled beautifully natural grass, like the green marble that was calling me.

The door opened into the pod.

I was on my way home.

o.O.o

I sat in the pilot's chair, while Jake closed the door. I pushed the homing button, knowing autopilot would take over. I didn't feel remorseful at all – there were enough escape pods for every single passenger. Everything was painstakingly calculated; Jake and I were just taking our escape pod a little early.

The rip of Velcro strapping me to my seat, the creak of us being vacuumed sealed in, the deafening blast of us being launched, was a sonorous symphony. Much better than that techno crap.

Sixty minutes. Sixty minutes away from the planted I was born on and, hopefully, would die on. Jake slapped his hand across my back in glee.

"Algebraic, dude!" he exclaimed. I rolled my eyes at his ancient attempt at a compliment.

They were actually quite endearing, though I'd never say as much. Actually, maybe I would. When we were back home. There was no telling what I'd do.

I closed my eyes, hoping that when I next opened them, clear blue water would be the first thing I saw.

o.O.o

I opened them to angry flashing lights.

Jake lunged at the controls.

"There's a field up ahead. Of asteroids," he informed me. I groaned.

"This isn't Star Wars, we can't navigate them," I said, feeling like I swallowed a balloon Jakeled with cement.

"We can't go around it – we'd run out of air before we reached earth," Jake informed. The front half of the pod was glass, over six inches thick. I suddenly didn't like how small the pod was – there was no room for pacing.

"Give me the controls," I commanded.

"Finn, are you sure?" Jake asked. I faced him.

"I'm sorry I dragged you into this," I said. He shrugged.

"That's what bros do," he said, smirking. I took deep, even breaths. _Just_ like practice, I told myself. I recalled all the hours I'd logged in at the simulator. It was less of a game to me, and more of a training course.

The first few asteroids were lazy, and easy to dodge. Suddenly, they were whizzing by like bullets. I skidded past one the size of a cow. I jerked the controls to avoid one the size of the whole craft. I yelped as I ducked under one _twice_ the size of the whole craft. We passed a dozen more similar to that, jerking left, up, down, right, up, up, like some twisted konami code. Each new asteroid brought a fresh wave of blood to my mind.

Finally, after what felt like a light year, it started to thin out. I could even see earth - I was almost out of the woods.

I got lazy. I got sloppy. I should have seen it coming.

A smaller one, the size of a wardrobe, smashed into our left side. We stumbled out into the open, badly damaged. The vacuum hadn't been broken, but we were dying.

We. Me, Jake, the craft. We were all one.

It wouldn't even tell me that the damage was, the cheap hunk of metal. I knew I was dead; I at least wanted to know whether it was from some measly kink or some fierce crash.

I screamed at it, kicked it, and threw a punch. It just sat there and took it.

I knew we were going to die, all of us.

I didn't care.

I turned to Jake. The last sight ever to enter the cortex of my brain was his loopy grin.

"It's been a hell of a ride," he laughed.

I smiled, and waited for the pain.

o.O.o

My eyes opened feebly, blinded by the sudden light. I was used to the dimness of the spacecraft, after spending many years squinting to see the board in class.

I felt woozy, like my organs had sunken into the ground. A feeling I recognized, having experienced it once, a lifetime ago.

This was real, genuine gravity.

I could feel every scratchy fiber of the blanket on top of me, the soft mattress below me. I craned my neck, and looked out the window. This one wasn't some porthole. It was square, and had a tic-tac-toe board going across it, like the ones I used to burn Jake at when we were little.

I looked out to see a street, with cars whizzing by and tall structures scratching at the sky.

A man entered, with a five o'clock shadow, rimless glasses, and a clipboard.

"Jake?" I sputtered. The man nodded, his features unreadable. I wondered if he ever had to tell people that their son, daughter, best friend, companion, hadn't survived the crash. Hadn't survived the treatment. Hadn't survived the night.

"He's fine," the man said, his voice gravelly in my ears. "Just a few broken ribs." I waited a beat before asking my next question, the one burning my frontal lobe.

"Am I home?" The man hesitated, then gave me his signature nod. The last thought that crossed my mind before I drifted out of consciousness what that the man looked a bit like a bobble head.

o.O.o

The woman was pink. Her hair, she skin, the modest dress she were, they were all different shades of pink. The only non-pink thing about her was her pure white lab coat.

She raised her eyebrows as the doctor in the rimless glasses entered the room.

"I'm sorry," he apologized defensively, "but what was I supposed to say?" The woman remained silent.

"You know I detest lying to patients," she noted. "The chart says he was born on earth." Suddenly, the man's shoes seemed much more interesting to him that the scowl on her face.

"Earth was deemed uninhabitable a decade ago. It's been left to rot ever since. The only _home_ the boy ever had is a radioactive wasteland, and he can never return." She didn't care how cheesy or ominous her last words were. She turned and walked briskly away from the doctor, away from the patient. She pivoted, throwing one last icy glare and stark comment at the man before disappearing.

"And _you'll_ be the one to tell him when he wakes back up." The man swore as the click of heels gradually softened.

Sometimes, that woman acted like _such_ a princess.

**Author's Note:**

> alright, confession time. this was actually an original work of fiction, but it was inspired by a dream i had about finn and jake. thanks for reading!! comments are always welcome.


End file.
